


Mummy's Boys

by jdmcool



Category: James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was precisely the type of call he had expected to get. Something short and concise since the Holmes family didn’t mince words over serious matters and mummy dying was the most serious thing he could think of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mummy's Boys

**Author's Note:**

> I've sorta been plotting this crossover since this movie came out.

“Mummy died.”

It was precisely the type of call he had expected to get. Something short and concise since the Holmes family didn’t mince words over serious matters and mummy dying was the most serious thing he could think of. Certainly it came at the perfect time, the middle of the night while he laid in bed, not even conscious enough to make out shapes in the darkness of his room. Biting back a yawn, he rubbed at his eyes as he let out a soft sigh before nodded.

“I suppose I’ll start with the funeral plans,” he muttered tiredly into the darkness.

“You know what she’d want, yes?”

“Yes.” Letting out a heavy sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose, he nodded. “We’ve... had this talk a lot as of late.”

“Sorry to wake you up.”

“It’s not a problem. Goodnight.”

“Night, Mycroft.”

Hanging up the phone, he stared at it for a long moment before placing it back on the nightstand. Eyes firmly focused on the ceiling, he tried to let the information sink in. In the morning, he would have to begin handling everything, but all he could think of was that concise sentence that greeted him the moment he answered the phone.

His mother was dead.

Lying there, mind drifting between what he had to do and the questions he would have to wait to ask, he wasn’t even mildly startled to find himself being held a bit tighter by the man next to him.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. My mum’s just died is all,” he said, gently squeezing the arm draped over his waist. Feeling the pressure of being watched while said arm tightened around him, he shook his head and curled into the man next to him. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Moving his arm to brushed a wayward strand of hair from Mycroft’s face, he kissed his forehead and nodded. “In the morning.”

As it stood, despite the arrival of the morning, the conversation never really came. Funeral planning was a difficult and time consuming job, the brunt of which fell on his shoulders since everyone else was busy. So, it was Mycroft’s duty to make calls and arrangements, listen to various condolences for a second time. A second time because most of them were just variations on what people had said when his father had died.

She was a good woman. The world’s lost one of the best to ever walk it. She would’ve been proud of so very much. It was hard to suffer through, given that Mycroft knew most of the people merely wanted to find comfort for themselves. But in the aftermath of the funeral and the burial, Mycroft found he couldn’t help but relax at the wake, something mummy had insisted on because it simply wouldn’t do to have people mourning like miserable wretches.

Not that there was much more livelihood going on at the wake, but there was alcohol and Mycroft found that people gave up talking to him as much when there was a bottle to take comfort in. Even he was enjoying the aged scotch, pouring himself another glass while listening to even more drivel.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Sherlock muttered.

Looking him over, paying careful attention to the shortness of his brother’s hair, Mycroft frowned. He didn’t keep up with his brother in person all that often, given what he was doing, but he understood the purpose of it. Certainly mummy would’ve appreciated it.

“Perhaps not, but you’re a ghost in a room full of spooks mourning the dead. Seems fitting.”

Making a soft noise to prove he was listening, Sherlock scanned the room, looking over all the agents and genuine friends of their mother. “Viliers isn’t here.”

Licking his lips, Mycroft finished off his drink. “He was transferred.”

“Something that had nothing to do with how your affair with him ended,” Sherlock scoffed.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft told himself that Sherlock mocking him for his relationship with mummy’s former assistant was nothing more than Sherlock being Sherlock. It didn’t make having his ex thrown in his face any better, given that things hadn’t necessarily ended all that well, especially since he knew that mummy had liked Villiers. He had been a fairly decent man who was good enough at what he did before certain situations led to him voluntarily being transferred and Bill Tanner filling his role.

Looking at the crowd for himself, Mycroft sighed. “A number of people mummy cared about aren’t here.”

“He is,” Sherlock said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Just lingering outside smoking. I was thinking of joining him.”

Straightening as he searched his brother for any quiet tells, Mycroft eventually put his glass down as another drink was just going to make him maudlin and he had managed to avoid that so far. Instead, he shoved is hands into his pockets and stared at one of the people in the room as he told Sherlock,“Someone else is already assigned to handle that comforting duty.”

“He’s never going to. Look at him. He’s like a rabbit.”

A fair enough assessment, if ever there was one. And, perhaps he was just feeling particularly kind, but he given that he knew that mummy would want him to do something about it, he began to walk off, gesturing for Sherlock to follow. “Come along, then.”

Going over to where more of mummy’s co-workers were quietly mourning, Mycroft stood next to the woman he was speaking to while Sherlock stood next to their target, staring at him with an amused grin, much to the annoyance of the poor victim.

Turning to the woman at his side, Mycroft smiled politely at her. “Pardon, Miss Moneypenny, but you wouldn’t mind if we were borrow your quartermaster, would you?”

“No, of course not, Mr. Holmes,” Eve said, barely hiding a knowing grin as she walked off.

Ignoring it, Mycroft stared at the young quartermaster, raising one eyebrow at him.

“I was talking to her about work,” the man complained as he stared down at his hands.

“You’re needed outside, I’m afraid, Q,” Sherlock said teasingly.

Paling, the young quartermaster shook his head violently. “No. He... I can’t do that. We... I don’t even really know him or what to say. It’s all so awkward.”

“He needs you to be there for him. Simple as that,” Mycroft argued.

“No. It isn’t that simple because he—“

“He needs someone,” Sherlock cut in, voice oddly firm. “He’d likely never admit, but he does. And... You don’t have to just sit back and watch him suffer.”

Looking away with a ducked head, Mycroft tried not to notice the hurt look on Sherlock’s face as he said that. Certainly if anyone knew the benefit of being there for another person, it was him. Not that John wasn’t doing fine enough now, but their relationship was one that simply didn’t get brought up in any sort of conversation. Not with John and not with Sherlock.

Shoulders slumping in defeat, Q looked at him, asking, “Why do you even care what I say to Bond?”

“He’s family,” Mycroft stated without hesitation. “We care about family.”

“Of course you do,” he scoffed.

Still, when Mycroft gestured for them to lead  the way, they did, Q heading outside more than a bit reluctantly as Sherlock all but marched him along, hand resting on his shoulder until they made their way into the open air. From there, it didn’t take long to find the blonde man, looking horribly out of place smoking a cigarette as he watched the world continue to exist around him.

To anyone else, he would’ve appeared to have been brooding, but to Mycroft there seemed to be an odd streak of nerves colouring everything the man did, as though being in a room surrounded by people who loved her most would be too much for him. It was something that Mycroft couldn’t blame anyone for feeling given that duty and obligation was the only thing to keep him as calm as he had been.

Still, there was no way he could resist teasing the man as he said, “Mr. Bond. You do know you’re allowed inside.”

“Can’t smoke inside,” James said, holding up his cigarette.

“Very true,” Mycroft said, as holding out his hand.

Looking a bit put out by the idea of sharing his cigarettes, James reluctantly pulled the pack from the pocket of his coat, letting both Mycroft and Sherlock take one without much more than a displeased look before letting them use his lighter to light up.

Hand rising to rest on Q’s shoulder once again, Sherlock looked James over quietly. “So you were with her when she died?”

“Yes. I stabbed Silva who was about to kill her,” James said as though it was nothing. Shrugging it off, he frowned at the ground. “He died, but she had been previously injured and died in my arms from blood loss. All details are in the official report.”

“At least she died near family,” Mycroft said with a nod.

“Pardon?” James asked, head snapping back up in shock.

“Don’t be obtuse, James,” he scoffed. “She cared for you. You were like her other wayward child.”

And whether he truly didn’t know or just was surprised to hear it from one of them, James went back to smoking, eyes focusing on anything but him as he muttered, “Hmm. Thanks.”

“Also, Sherrinford here is meant to be comforting you through your mutual loss, but given his nerves concerning talking to people who give him erections, you can understand his silence,” Sherlock said, giving Q a pointed look.

Jerking away from him, Q glared at his brother, eyes all blue steel while his face turned a rather amusing shade of red from embarrassment. “Christ, Sherlock!”

“Oh what? Going to tell mummy?” Sherlock questioned

“How dare you! She’s not even rotted yet and you’re making quaint little quips about her death.”

Sighing, Mycroft noticed the way James was looking between the two of them in confusing. With an a smile he didn’t have to force as much as others since their mother’s death, he chuckled. “James, I don’t think you’ve ever been fortunate enough to meet the twins at the same time.”

“You’re M’s son?” James asked.

“We don’t use our family name to get places, James,” Q said, only growing redder under the man’s gaze. “Least not mummy’s.”

“Using Siger’s name, on the other hand, is perfectly acceptable,” Sherlock said, mockingly

“It is when it was given to us,” Q argued. Of course, having known Sherlock all his life, he knew better than to give in. Instead, he merely crossed his arms over his chest and said, “You know what, nevermind. How’s John, Sherlock? Chat with him often?”

“Oh piss off, Sherrinford. At least—“

“Both of you,” Mycroft interrupted before things got any more out of control. Taking a slow drag of his cigarette, he breathed out the smoke slowly. “Mummy’s dead, we’re at her wake, pretend as though you weren’t raised by wolves.”

Cowed, both men quietly turned their attentions elsewhere, Sherlock smoking his cigarette while Q stared at the sky.

Finishing his own smoke, James flicked the butt to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe before asking, “Twins, huh?”

“Fraternal,” Mycroft sighed. “I fear she might’ve left them to me in her will, but I can share either with you.”

“Only one?” James asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Biting his lip to keep from smiling and failing miserably, Mycroft shrugged. “They tend to fight when together.”

“I would say you can have Mycroft but he’s had some man in a sling sniffing around him all day,” Sherlock said, the comment getting a chuckle from Q and a roll of his eyes from Mycroft.

James only looked confused once again as he said, “You and—“

“Afraid so.”

Getting over his shock far too quickly, James nodded quietly. “I take it after Villiers, she wouldn’t let you near her assistant again?”

“We all made questionable decisions that year, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said, giving him a pointed look.

And while far too many men would’ve been offended or taken the hint to let the conversation lie, James only smiled a bit brighter at him, a witty comment chasing away the brief flicker of remembrance he had for the woman who nearly got him to leave MI6. Lifting his chin in a silent challenge for him to do his worst, Mycroft was a bit disappointed when his brother cut in before James could say anything.

“Taken men aren’t supposed to flirt with people their siblings like, Mycroft,” Q muttered bitterly.

Patting Q’s shoulder, Mycroft nodded before giving James an apologetic look. “I’m afraid that’s as close to a declaration of intent as you’re likely to get from him, James.”

“Yes. I rather suspected as much,” James said, eyes lingering on Q just long enough to make the poor man grow a bit redder in the face as he smiled to himself.

“Oh you can both piss off,” Q muttered half heartedly.

“Mummy would like this,” Sherlock laughed. “Her four boys, bickering, flirting and smoking.”

“She’d have yelled at us like wayward children, just like she did at father’s funeral,” Mycroft chuckled, thinking back on the utter disaster that had been.

Both the twins facing their own criminal streaks as one took to hacking into everything possible while the other took to drugs. And while Mycroft would’ve liked to have believed he had been better than the two of them, his eating problems couldn’t have been easy on their poor mother.

“Mycroft, you’re setting a bad example,” Sherlock said, imitating that disappointed tone she tended to take with them. Often for good reason given the hellions she had for children. “Sherlock, you need a haircut and to stop making such a scene in public. Sherrinford, why you let them drag you into these things, I’ll never know. And James... Hurt him and you’ll find yourself permanently dealt with.”

“And here I thought I’d be spared the embarrassment of mummy defending my honour,” Q said, grimacing at the statement as he straightened his glasses.

Resting a heavy hand on the back of Q’s neck, James stared Sherlock and Mycroft down as he said, “I’d never hurt my quartermaster. Who knows what he’d do in retaliation.”

Which was a fair enough claim when it came to date a Holmes.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” someone called out.

Turning toward the noise like the rest of them, Mycroft smiled at the man walking over to them, feeling even more at peace, a fact he chose to overlook as he stubbed out his finished cigarette.

“Not at all, Gareth. Just a quick smoke and a bit of reminiscing with mummy’s other children.”

Stepping up to Mycroft, Gareth looked them all over, eyes never lingering, but never on a specific one. After all, when face with a dead man, a secret agent and a man most probably didn’t connect to their family, it was best not to ask too many questions.

Instead, Gareth rolled his injured shoulder with a slight wince before saying, “I take it the blonde is adopted?”

Looking back at James, Mycroft nodded. “More or less.”

Narrowing his eyes at them, James slowly smirked. “So, you and Mycroft, Mallory?”

It was the type of behaviour that Mycroft was long since used to given that Sherlock and Q had all but made a hobby of deducing his personal life as boys. The fact that Gareth didn’t so much as bat an eye at the comment just made Mycroft certain that very soon he would have to figure out how he felt about their relationship.

The man was just a bit too perfect, cupping the back of his neck with his good hand and kissing him out of comfort rather than show. Something gentle and bittersweet for a brief moment before moving just enough to speak.

“I’ll be inside talking to Eve, when you’re done with your brothers.”

“I won’t be long,” Mycroft said, giving him a quick peck before patting his side for him to go.

Waving at the rest of them as he walked away , Gareth gave a brief, “Gentlemen.”

The fact that they all gave their acknowledgement was touching, if not strange. If it had been a normal circumstance, Sherlock would’ve been readily harping on his continued pattern of behaviour while Q listed statistical evidence about his relationship. The only thing he got once Gareth was gone were knowing little looks that Mycroft ignored as easily as the idea that they would’ve been on him like sharks that smelled fresh blood if not for mummy’s death.

“You don’t have to stay out here, Mycroft. Sherlock and I are adults,” Q said,, kicking at the ground nervously.

“Debateable,” Mycroft said, unable to fully resist the smile forming on his lips as he teased them. “Still, who knows when I’ll get to spend time with the three of you again, if ever.”

“Well if we’re going to be out here longer, I’m going to need another smoke,” Sherlock declared, something which James readily agreed to.

“Fair enough,” he said, with a small roll of his eyes.

He knew his brother had quit, but deaths were good excuses to fall off certain bandwagons. And really, it wasn’t as though he was using cocaine. Standing around, smoking with the rest of them, he was as safe as any of them could expect to be. After all, there were people who likely wanted them all dead, but as he watched Bond light Q’s cigarette, his little brother blushing furiously, Mycroft figured that no one would be cruel enough to ruin the solace they were finding in each other and not crazy enough to mess with the most dangerous family in the world right after they’d lost their mum.


End file.
